Personatus
by Narsus
Summary: When everyone is playing their ascribed roles... [Draco's POV]


**Persōnātus**

Disclaimer: Characters, settings etc belong to J. K. Rowling and her respective publishers and associates.

**Persōnātus _a. masked; in an assumed character._**

- Collins Gem, _Latin Dictionary_

**Draco's**** POV**

            It's surprisingly quiet tonight, as if everything around me has stilled.  Of course, the facts that its past curfew and that I am alone in the Astronomy tower may have something to do with it.  I'm not waiting for anyone, not expecting or wanting company, just sitting here… alone.  I suppose that's a reflection on the rest of my life as well.  Alone.  Everything that I do, everything that I feel.  It would probably confuse a lot of people if I were ever to tell them.  They'd ask how I could possibly believe that when all my time is spent around other people; with Crabbe and Goyle dogging my footsteps, my father admonishing me to 'behave in a fashion befitting a Malfoy', Professor Snape watching me…

            He does that a lot, Professor Snape, that is.  He watches, not just me; I won't flatter myself that I'm anything other than an interesting piece in some grand game of chess that he plays.  I'm sure there are other, equally interesting pieces on the board.  The famous Harry Potter, for one.  But then, I'm fairly sure that there are plenty of other people watching him too.  When it comes to it, I'm probably not terribly important in the grand scheme of things.  How could I be?  Especially when there's the famous Harry Potter to consider.  Do I sound bitter?  Of course: I am.

            But it's not quite that simple.  Not as quite as straightforward as everyone thinks.  It's not just a case of the pureblood, Draco Malfoy hating the half-breed, Boy who Lived to steal the limelight.  I don't hate Potter, I never have, really.  It's more a case of dislike, envy and for a Malfoy those things can be just as bad.  I dislike Potter's arrogance, his effortless conquests, his self-righteousness, his defenders…  Well, perhaps not all of them, just the ones that seem so intent on making themselves obvious targets.  I'm fairly sure that his world is cut into divisions of white and black.  Good and evil.  Gryffindor and Slytherin.  Ah, if only it were that simple… how boring life would be.

            But where was I?  Yes, the myriad reasons I have to dislike Potter.  For his blindness I hold my greatest distaste.  His little, narrow world where we must all be one thing or the other.  He doesn't even consider the possibility that one might be both or neither.  In Potter's little, black and while world people stand for various ideals, never for themselves.  My father is the epitome of an arrogant pureblood, Professor Snape represents all that is corrupt about House Slytherin, Aunt Bellatrix is all that every Death Eater would aspire to be...  They are ideas, not people.  And certainly never individuals.

            It never occurs to Potter that perhaps we are doing what we are doing for different reasons.  Perhaps my hatred towards the mudblood, Granger is simply because I find _her irritating.  Granted, I'm not particularly predisposed towards mudbloods.  Muggles trying to play at being something that they are not.  But it's not normally something I'd make that much of an effort to do anything about.  Let them get on with their lives and we'll get on with ours, just as long as they do it a long way from us.  But back to my point.  Granger.  I think I'd hate her even if she were pureblood.  It's not so much what she is but __who she is.  Though, of course, no one ever considers that possibility._

            I hate the Weasley's just as much but that's another matter.  Pureblood or not.  My father may insist that they're a disgrace to wizard-kind for associating with muggles but I think that is simply the latest in a long list of accusations that my family has levelled at them.  There is almost as large a difference between Malfoys and Weasleys as there is between Malfoys and muggles, and never the twain shall meet.

            There are always many more reasons for what we do, so many more than are apparent.  Potter and his companions only ever scratch the surface.

            My father is ambitious, he craves power and recognition.  He most certainly does not want the Dark Lord to dictate his every action.  He has chosen an available route to power but it is not without its disadvantages.  I am quite willing to guess that some part of him was pleased when the Dark Lord fell.

            Professor Snape is just as ambitious, though less obvious about it.  I wonder that Potter's worry is that the Professor might still be loyal to the Dark Lord, when he seems never to notice that said Dark Lord is investing just as much effort in trying to win back his most able Lieutenant as Dumbledore is expending in keeping him.  Is it possible that Gryffindors are incapable of hearing the words that drip like poison into the ears of their esteemed Headmaster?

            Perhaps it is the case.  For they never seem to look further than the face I choose to show them.  Do they never wonder what I may have learnt in the darkness?  But of course they don't.  Because I don't give them reason to.  Let them think that centuries of knowledge, generations of dark wizards have taught us nothing.  Let them think that our blood has failed.  I think though, that I am always slightly amused by this, after all the Weasleys are purebloods too.  Blood traitors that they are, they should retain some knowledge of the archaic patterns that continue to repeat among our kind.

            Wheels within wheels, plans that may take generations to reach fruition, vengeance that is carried down the centuries.  That is what it means to be a pureblood.  To wear your many masks, to play your assumed part until such time…  And many of the things you set in motion, you may never see reach completion and sometimes, you are not even the beginning, simply a link in the chain.

            For all that they fear, the Dark Lord is only a passing phenomenon.  There have been others before him and there will certainly be others to follow.  And when the games we play are lost and forgotten, when our enmity is dust just as we are, there will be others to replace us.  It is a comforting thought, in some ways, to know that when I am nothing but a memory, when all that remains is a dusty portrait on a faded wall someone else will bear the name of Malfoy, someone else will wear the very same masks, patterned after mine and my father's and my grandfather's…

            Potter should count himself lucky that his rival appears nothing but a spoilt little boy.  Should be thankful that my Death Eater father is so obvious.  Has he never noticed that the coat-of-arms of the Snape family bears a suspicious resemblance to the Slytherin crest?

            I wonder if they like our masks, our assumed roles.  If the caricatures that we play amuse them.  Sometimes, I wonder if this play has actually ended and the players have simply carried on.  If you wear a mask for so long, is it possible to forget that it's not your own face?

            If I were to take my mask off, what would you make of the face beneath it, Potter?  Faced with the weight of all the generations that came before me, could you fight us all?  Would you even know how to?  Would Granger run screaming back to her muggle world once she'd seen what we really are?  Would Weasley actually notice?

            We are all playing our given roles, so perhaps it would change nothing.  It might give Potter pause for thought; the Professor might adapt his strategy as appropriate; it would probably confuse Crabbe and Goyle.

            Underneath all the lies, the deceptions, the machinations that are composite parts of this bizarre game.  Under all the masks and scripted dialogue.  We are not so special, not so different from anyone else.

            And what does it mean to be a Malfoy?  When the eons of ritual and tradition weigh down upon me, lies upon lies wrapped around me, when every expression is a prescribed formality.  Beneath it all, what I am and what I must be…

In the darkness, if I were to take off my mask; would I recognise my own face?

04:34, 05/08/03


End file.
